


Mafiosos Don't Get Memoirs

by Greeeeny



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: 1940s, 1950s, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Family Angst, Family Fluff, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Headcanon, Immigration & Emigration, Organized Crime, Parallel Universes, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3829726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greeeeny/pseuds/Greeeeny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry thinks back on his life just before he dies; featuring many vignettes in various points of his life - before and after his marriage to Bettina, growing up with six other Tomasinos, his defection to the States, his many nieces and nephews and plenty of other fluffy stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

_Henry thinks back on his life just before he dies._

 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t go along as planned on that day. Not at least how Henry had envisioned it. It still perplexed him even now – on the verge of death – how a simple meet-up in the park could lead to his demise. Henry found it humorous because he had expected it, one way or another. People in this line of work – whether they were Made Men or just associates, or anyone who was unlucky enough to fall in – didn’t die from conventional or ‘peaceful’ deaths (although Henry still mused as to whether dying from a heart attack or seizure was ‘peaceful’) It was such a contradiction; it boggled his mind just as inhumane, blood-curdling screams escaped his lips.

He lay there like an animal, something to be looked down upon, and choked on his own muffled words of ‘Help me!’ or ‘Get off of me!’, but these pleas went no-where. The slashes from machetes, butchers knives and cleavers were quick and precise – this wasn’t spontaneous and didn’t come from thin air. It was planned. Fucking Chinks; conniving little slant-eyed bastards. It had to be them, because the Cosa Nostra had some sort of dignity when it came to taking people out. Henry never imagined he would die like this, ever.

The pain didn’t kick in immediately; what made Henry scream was the vulgar, perverse sounds the blades made when they carved into his meat, everywhere. He screamed, throat searing, but he didn’t cry. He wondered whether Joe or Vito had already made it and secretly hoped that if they were nearby, they would hear him and get the fuck away from the park. The screams of bystanders started to mesh in with his own; the End was nigh. Henry could feel it. Still shielding his face with his hacked arms – already drenched in the colour of crimson – he still called out for aid like a loser; but he closed his eyes, ready to accept death. Never had he thought it would be this enticing. What he thought was the white light of Heaven (even though he knew his place was reserved elsewhere) was actually the summer sun of Empire Bay, beaming over him. The Chinks still stood above, hacking at whatever was still hanging on his bones.

And after what seemed like an eternity of whiteness, he saw the horrified faces of Joe and Vito. Mouth unable to move, just like the rest of face and body; he simply looked on at the faces of his only friends. Joe hadn’t looked this disturbed since Marty’s death – poor kid.

“ _Jesus_ , Vito,” Joe began, eyes starting to sparkle with man-tears, “What kind of animal would do this?”

 _Rhetorical question_ , Henry thought. He had been rolled over, smearing crimson everywhere. Henry had never seen so much crimson in his life; it was beautiful. The pain had evaporated long ago, he now couldn’t feel anything. He only felt the pain on the inside; heartache of the worst kind.

_Why the fuck would I feel sad for myself?_

If there was any consolation to Henry right now, he was closer to seeing his father, mother and Bettina. _Shit_ , Henry thought again. It was an all right trade. He never got to farewell Bettina, his wife. At the time it was appropriate to blame work for not being there, but Henry knew it was bullshit now; it was a bullshit excuse. He wasn’t there when Bettina lay in bed – face severely discoloured from sickness and a priest constantly hovering over her – because he had started to frequent Freddy’s or the Cathouse religiously. Their marriage had broken down well before that and everyone knew that. He attended the funeral, only attended by a few, and kept a blank face; this continued even after her death. Realisations come a little too late, unfortunately.

 

* * *

 


	2. ii

* * *

 

 

Henry remembers a brown-haired woman rolled up in crumpled bedsheets like a cannolo, looking up at him lovingly as he stands up – fresh cigarette burning in his hand. He’s stark naked, but she doesn’t seem to care; she couldn’t have been older than eighteen at the time. Henry has fewer lines on his forehead – he was in love back then, foolishly. He also smiles back at her, taking a drag, and leaning against the window sill of their small bedroom. The curtains are drawn, so no one will catch a glimpse of Henry Tomasino’s bare ass. They don’t converse; in fact, the early days of their matrimony are wordless – it’s a marriage that is mostly spent in the bedroom. Outside, they behave almost like close cousins or brother and sister. That’s the way it is.

 

* * *

 


	3. iii

* * *

 

 

A year passes and Bettina sits on the edge of the bed, crying softly. Henry — still young and look better than he ever has — walks in. His collar is loose, but the tie is still tight in his trademark Windsor knot. He is surprised; Bettina never cries. He doesn’t say anything and cradles her; he doesn’t know how to console like a proper husband, but trying doesn’t hurt. Minutes pass and Bettina stirs — she was pregnant but miscarried. 

 

* * *

 


	4. iv

* * *

 

Some time passes after Henry learns that his chance to have progeny was sullied by God, by fate, by whatever cruel force decided these events. He eventually gets over it, but Bettina never does. She spends her afternoons alone looking down the balcony of their apartment in Empire Bay – all she does is sigh as she looks upon little pink-faced children play ball and needlessly pick on one another. Henry is going to get rid of her for sure; after all, what use does she have to him now? She couldn’t bear sons, let alone healthy, living and breathing girls. Henry doesn’t know it, but she spends many nights just looking upon him as he sleeps, his breathing even and chest rising slowly. She wishes he could find someone else to make him truly happy.

 

What Bettina doesn’t know is that Henry wishes he never married her or brought her to the States. He vividly remembers her black shawl wisping over her face as they stand near the rail of the ship they’re taking refuge on. She had the chance to be something, to do something. She left her studies and a myriad of suitors that could give her so much more than he could just to be with him. Henry didn’t know if it was selfless love or blind naïveté, but it felt so good to be adored by someone. Bettina looked at him like nobody ever did; it was overwhelming, but dear God it made him feel on top of the world. That’s what it was like, to be looked upon like a saint but knowing you were anything but.

 

She stimulated his mind like nothing else, and with a subtle look from the corner of her eye he could hear her jesting him.

 

“Are you admiring the view, or are you that enamoured by me?” Bettina says in perfect English, no hint of an accent.

 

He hadn’t realised that when he fell into deep thought, his eyes would wander. Henry doesn’t speak a word, running a thumb over his wife’s soft and icy cheek. Bettina understood him like that – one action of his spoke a thousand words. He loved her.

 

 

* * *

 


	5. v

* * *

 

 

“I’m afraid she doesn’t have much longer.”

 

Henry almost swallows his tongue as a beefy doctor consoles him, hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t have the capacity to cry, not since he was a little boy growing up in Sicily, anyway. But Henry wishes he could, because now it was essentially time to start mourning and Henry hates doing that. He did it when his father passed and didn’t help him heal. The pain still remained no matter how many times grieved to himself.

 

“I’m so sorry, Mr Tomasino,” The beefy doctor says in Sicilian, “If it’s any consolation, she’s on a morphine drip and she won’t feel anything.”

 

That’s probably why it looks like she is staring into vacant spaces, looking for somewhere to hide. Bettina accepted her impending demise a while ago, Henry didn’t. He pays the doctor for his services and walks into the bedroom-turned-morgue. It smells like suffering and spousal neglect. Bettina’s face looks like a battered war field, but she showed no signs of defeat. There was some kindness in surrendering – Henry would go on. For a human heart can be broken time and time again, yet it still has the strength to love selflessly. Bettina gives Henry a dazed, crooked smile and Henry feels the pang of a thousand knives drive themselves into his chest. He can’t stand to look at her.

 

 _Why the fuck did I ever bring you into my life?_ Henry thinks to himself.

 

 _This is all my fault_.

 

And as if Bettina has been monitoring his thoughts, her eyes motion him to stop. His hand finds its way into one of her thin, papery hands.

 

“I can walk out peacefully of your life just as I walked in willingly. Death is a new beginning and I’m ready to start over, as should you.” Bettina manages to croak.

 

Biting his tongue, Henry feigns a painful smile. Even on the brink of death, she still has something poignant to say. Henry plants a kiss on her forehead and leaves her to be.

 

Bettina passes in the first rain storm of autumn. Autumn was her favourite season.

 

* * *

 


End file.
